Page 7 of His Deadly Lies

“No,” I argue immediately.

“Why not?” Papa’s voice holds a chill and a hint of an accent. “Is she not capable, in your humble opinion, Mia?”

Isabella needs to stay as far away from the field, or any aspect of this bullshit, as possible. If Papa is determined to shove his favorite daughter further into the spotlight, then I am just as determined to keep her out of it.

She’s an innocent.

If anyone has to take the brunt of the darkness, then it will be me.

“I am more than capable,” I correct bitterly. “Though perhaps you could hire some men who are better suited to their positions instead of the second rates you have now.”

I say it sweetly, knowing one of them is dead and the other more than likely beaten into a bloody pulp and unable to move.

“Mia, you may be my heir, but there is no way you know more than your own father.” He chuckles, and the sound grates on my nerves.

I always brush off his comments like those because of the way he was raised. It’s my go-to excuse and certainly does excuse a lot of things. My father is traditional down to the core. The man is the king of the castle, and it’s his duty to provide for his family and to make the decision. It’s not his fault he is the way he is, and it’s not his fault those kinds of statements chafe me the way they do.

Edward Balestra only elevated me to be his heir because he’d had the distinctive unluckiness to have only female children and a wife who refused to bear more than three.

Another fact of life.

“I vet every one of our employees,” he continues, a hint of rage seeping into every word. “They are all carefully examined before being brought into the business.”

I sigh, saying in a small voice, “I know you do, Papa.”

“Mia, you’ll have to let me handle this. In my time, in my way. You understand, yes?”

Luckily for me, my father trusts me. For the most part. He knows that I’m good at what I do for him, and he sees, for the most part, what I bring to the table. My wit. My intelligence.

A handful of the men beneath my father in our operation see it too. They just don’t like it.

It’s called being a threat, boys.

“Apparently, they made a stop in Fort Wayne and left the shipment alone for, I was assured, minutes only,” I continue as though my observational skills haven’t been called into question.

The car takes a left turn, heading toward the family compound near the edge of the lake, the tires smooth along the asphalt.

“There should not have been any stops,” Edward insists.

“Which is why I had Rafel inside, to make sure they understand the consequences of unauthorized stops.”

“I’ll call Kellan and see what he can pull from any surveillance cameras along the way. I’d like to see any of the stops the truck made for myself.”

“I already sent him a text, while we’ve been speaking,” I assured Papa.

I balance the cell between my ear and my shoulder, reaching into my clutch for my lip gloss.

Just another kind of armor.

“Well, well, Mia. You deserve a raise.”

The compliment should not impact me the way it does, bringing a warm glow of appreciation to my face. The car rolls gently to a stop at a red light.

“I know. I’ll talk to you at home.” I press the screen to end the call and slip the cell back into my clutch.

If I’m going to have to sit through a meeting with Edward, and no doubt he’s putting one together at this point with Uncle Paolo, then I’m going to need coffee. It’s late for a caffeine fix, but with three martinis in my system, I’m asking for trouble.

“Rafel,” I call out. “We need to make a pit stop for coffee. Find something.”

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